


Indigo

by Tokyo_the_Glaive



Series: Tumblr Shorts [5]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Dragon!Q, Dragons, M/M, Mild Gore, Resurrected!Bond, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 21:39:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6627523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokyo_the_Glaive/pseuds/Tokyo_the_Glaive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q's file was heavily redacted.  Bond was naturally curious.  They're alike in their differences.</p><p>(Or, the one where Q's a dragon who likes warm things, and Bond's a dead man walking.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indigo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [northernMagic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/northernMagic/gifts).



> Written for a tumblr prompt for a cute dragon!Q. Not sure if I delivered, but here goes nothing!

Q’s file was heavily redacted.It only existed on paper, interestingly enough.Bond couldn’t find a digitized copy anywhere within the MI6 archives, which made absolutely no sense in light of recent MI6 filing policies; there wasn’t supposed to be paper _anything_ anymore.(Bond’s file was a necessary exception, but he’d been hired long before Q so no one made a fuss.)Company policy said it was for the environment or for security by turns, but the facts were the facts, and the fact was that Q’s file wasn’t supposed to physically exist.

In that sense, Bond supposed that the rules were entirely beside the point, as the file _did_ exist and was sitting squarely in Bond’s lap, improbable but very real.

Bond had requested it ages ago, before he’d even met Q.He had been expecting to receive a file through email that he could read prior to their first meeting at the National Gallery.He’d wanted to get a feel for his new Quartermaster.

Perhaps just to spite Bond, then, the file had arrived almost a year later, covered in bars of blank ink that refused to betray what had once been printed underneath.

Bond took a long drink of his coffee before setting the cup back on the saucer on the coffee table.Outside, the sky was grey but bright.Bond’s flat, recently acquired, still smelled stale and unused, but he supposed it was as much a home as his last had been.

He flipped the pages of Q’s file with a frown.He’d expected the redactions—Bond’s own file had more redactions than text—but Q’s was peculiar in the sense of what had been deemed worthy of redaction.

Date of birth.Place of birth.Race/ethnicity.Work history.Blood type.The entirety of his physical exam.There was more black than white on the pages, and Bond would have written the file off as some sort of harmless prank had M himself not been the person to hand him the file.

“I requested this a year ago,” Bond had said, aware that he sounded a petulant child.He wanted to needle M, find out why he was personally handing the file over like some sort of secretary.

“Don’t,” M said, rubbing his eyebrows.They needed a good comb.

“Don’t what?”

M had glared at him then.“Don’t be yourself,” he had snapped.“That’s all.Get out of my office.”

Now, as Bond sat with the file in the privacy of his flat, he wondered.Q’s file looked remarkably like his own, which meant— M clearly didn’t want him digging.The information had to be sensitive, likely a security issue.Or, maybe it was like Bond’s—patently unbelievable, and so covered up.

Finding out which would take time, and effort.Good thing Bond was grounded for the next three weeks.He had nothing but time.

* * *

Q Division was silent.

It was rarely anything else, Bond had noticed.Q ran a tight ship.Quartermasters worked in well-sectioned teams, with a designated leader, a few talented programmers, and a few scientists responsible for the hands-on manufacture of devices.They each had their jobs, and whatever tasks they had been assigned were tailored to the strengths and weaknesses of each group.

Simple, effective, efficient.It was so orderly, Bond half-believed that if he dropped a pen in the middle of the floor, the spell would be broken by the sound and the relative state of chaos.

He did not drop a pen, though he allowed the faintest of a smile at the thought.Instead, as the sliding glass doors to the Division swept shut behind him without so much as a hiss, Bond took measured steps across the floor, noting that not a single person so much as looked up to see who had entered Q’s domain.

Q, as usual, stood at a desk at the front of everything.He faced two monitors simultaneously and glanced between the both of them as his fingers skittered over the keyboard.Bond approached him, keeping his pace constant until he stood immediately before Q’s desk.He slid his hands into his pockets and waited.

Q did not look up, but Bond knew that he was aware of his presence.It was hard not to, Bond reasoned, thought part of that was his own training.The feel of the room had changed, ever so slightly.Perhaps it had warmed a degree, or perhaps the hum in the air from the vents had changed in frequency by a few scant hertz.

“There,” Q said, his voice a mere murmur.“Finished.”He looked up, blinking twice at Bond.“My office, if you would.”

Bond followed him without a word.There was no reason to cause a disturbance on the floor in front of Q’s underlings.No doubt it would spook Q to be confronted so openly.Contrary to popular belief, Bond rarely made a disturbance unless it suited him, either in terms of necessity or desire.Now, with a goal so clearly etched in his mind, his only course of action was to follow, and he did.

Q’s office was small and grey, so much like the rest of his Division that Bond hardly recognized it as a private space.

“007,” Q said, cordial and cold.“How can I help you?” _Steel beams_ , Bond thought.Q’s bones might have been steel beams for how rigidly he carried himself in that moment.

Bond reached into one of the many interior pockets in his jacket and extracted Q’s file.Q took it gingerly from his fingers and placed it on his desk, straightening the creases where Bond had folded it.When he saw what it was, he looked at Bond.

“I requested it before our first meeting,” he said by way of explanation.

“And?” Q asked primly.He accentuated the word, leaving it sharp as a knife and twice as accusatory.

“I’m curious,” Bond admitted.

Q’s mouth, before a straight line, turned to a perfectly contorted frown.

“Too bad,” he said, handing the file back to Bond.Bond took the papers from Q slowly, refolding them and sliding them back inside his jacket.He put them where he often kept mission briefings.

When Bond didn’t move, Q stood up a little straighter.

“You don’t trust me,” Q said.Bond didn’t have to respond.He was watching Q intently now.He had expected Q to sweat, or stutter.Instead Q seemed pale and thin, metal hidden under flesh.Steel beams.

“I don’t trust you, either,” Q said.“How many times have you been declared dead, only to rise again?”

“Depends what you define as dead,” Bond said, neatly sidestepping Q’s trap.“I’m breathing now.”

“And I exist,” Q said.“You can trust me.”His eyes slid down to where his file rested against Bond’s chest, settled gently between his button-down and his suit jacket.

They stood for a moment, silent and staring.Their eyes roamed, examining, checking, waiting.Bond was good at waiting, but he had a feeling Q was even better.

“Twelve,” Bond said, giving ground.

“Twelve,” Q said, rolling the number around in his mouth.“That’s…”

Bond rolled his wrists, turning them upright for a moment.It was a surrender gesture, he knew that, but he had pride to spare, he was curious, and Q was watching him with something akin to astonishment.Never let it be said that Bond didn’t love putting on a show.

Showmanship, in fact, was one of Bond’s many fortes, and it showed with how he stripped.Cufflinks first, naturally, followed by the suit jacket itself.He draped it over the back of Q’s office chair, an ugly plastic thing Bond briefly imagined setting on fire.His tie took a moment, but he draped that, too, over the back of the chair.

By the time he had untucked his shirt, he had Q’s undivided attention. _Ravenous_ , Bond thought.Q looked like a man starved, only to be suddenly offered a feast.Bond understood that Q had expected to be forced to give first.Never let it be said, too, that Bond was not generous, at least when he felt like it.

With his shirt removed and carefully draped, he stood before Q, who touched with his eyes if not his fingers.There were the scars from the wound that had killed him most recently (Moneypenny, Istanbul), but it was hardly the focal point.Q traced a laceration across his abdomen on the horizontal (Bond remembered that one vividly; he had held his guts in place while he ran, feeling their slippery, floppy coils threatening to spill out) and the starburst on his left side (IED, Syria; the wound had cauterized, but oh, how it had burned).Amongst the scars from cuts that had run too deep, there were three strands of mottled tissue from an old Y-incision.It bisected the slash across his torso neatly, and Bond felt Q tracing the right angles.

“How do you hide it?” Q asked.

Bond felt his jaw twitch.In the blink of an eye, the most gruesome of the scar tissue had vanished.

Q took a step back as if scalded.

“Get out.”

The words were harsh, grating.The cold had left Q’s voice, and what remained wasn’t pretty.Bond had hoped for a better response, but he hadn’t really expected it.

Without a word, Bond began redressing.Q turned away, but there was nowhere for him to go: the office was small, and Bond stood at Q’s desk.He did up his buttons slowly, watching the rise and fall of Q’s shoulders as he hunched over, breathing heavily.

He had nearly finished straightening himself out, tie and cufflinks back where they belonged, when Q stood up straight.

“Damn you,” he said, turning around.

“I beg your pardon,” Bond said, utterly without remorse.

“Damn you.”

Bond walked to the door to the Division.

“Wait.”

Bond stilled at the command, but he didn’t turn around until Q gave the word.Only then did he pivot on his heels to see what Q had decided to do.

The way Q stripped betrayed his nervousness.No doubt he hadn’t done this in ages—probably not since he’d signed on with MI6.Q wouldn’t meet his eyes, and Bond focused on his chest, the rise and the fall that said that Q was alive and breathing.

Cardigan, tie, button-down.Not quite Bond’s uniform, but close enough for the symmetry to be jarring.Q lacked Bond’s toned physique, but a trail of incredibly dark hair ran down from his belly button to disappear beneath his trousers.

Q’s jaw twitched, and Bond felt the temperature in Q’s office drop by just a few degrees.

Q’s skin changed—first peach, then grey, then a blue that bordered on periwinkle.His fingers didn’t change, but his arms seemed longer, sharper.His neck lengthened infinitesimally, and his cheeks hollowed.Q refused to open his eyes, but Bond wasn’t looking at his face.Instead, his attention was drawn to Q’s back.

 _Spikes_ , Bond thought distinctly.They were dark blue and sharp, no doubt deadly, and they ran down his spine, curving down and then back up like cartilaginous ferns.Just at his shoulder blades on either side, wings—great indigo things, paper thin and folded in on themselves to take up less space—emerged, webbed and twitching.It was easy to imagine Q extending them so that they spanned the length of the room.The force from one beat could take the air of out Bond’s lungs, could leave him flattened and bleeding.

Bond was so preoccupied with what he could see of Q’s back that he almost didn’t see the horns, black and ridged, nestled in Q’s curls, curling in and around his hair.

Then Q sneezed, a flurry of snowflakes appearing in front of his face and Bond couldn’t restrain a laugh.

Q’s eyes were open in a flash, and Bond was pinned under the glare.

“Happy now?” Q demanded.

Bond held out a hand in offering.Q froze up, eyeing it warily.Rather than approach, Bond remained perfectly still, unmoving and immovable.

Q came within a hair’s breadth of his fingers, and still Bond did not move.

“You were curious,” Q said.He took one hand and placed it atop Bond’s, allowing his fingers to rest at Bond’s shirtsleeves.Q’s fingers were rough and cold like this.

Abruptly, Q drew back and spun away.Bond allowed his hands to drop as Q’s spines rattled against each other.They sounded hollow, but Bond knew better.Q’s wings spasmed and disappeared as abruptly as they had come, leaving Q pink and heaving.

Q dressed quickly and with far less methodical precision than Bond had.His fingers shook over his buttons, and he ended up throwing his tie down in frustration after failing to tie the knot three times in a row.

“May I?” Bond asked.He hadn’t moved from his position by the door.Q’s fingers gripped his cardigan tightly until they didn’t, and Bond took that as his cue.He retrieved the tie from the floor.It was a nice piece of fabric, a dark silk that nearly matched Q’s hair.Giving Q plenty of room, he looped the tie around the upturned collar of his shirt and began to tie the knot.

Q watched him as he worked, though Bond kept his eyes squarely on the tie, and a little on the patch of skin just below Q’s jaw and the fabric of the collar.The shirt, at least, had been starched.The cardigan was good fabric, too, but far too young to suit Bond’s tastes.The times, they were changing.

Carefully, Bond slid the knot into place, feeling Q’s pulse quicken and the muscles in his neck tighten in fight-or-flight response.Bond slid the tie down Q’s chest, then looked Q in the eye.Neither of them moved.

“You have an adorable sneeze,” Bond said.

Q whacked him over the head with his open palm, a warm blush crossing his face.

“You’re a dead man, James Bond,” Q said.

The funny thing was, they were both right.

* * *

The very next day, Bond returned to Q Division.  He had a cardigan, a box of tea, and coffee beans.  Q led him into his office.  He switched on the kettle and dragged out an old coffee maker that Bond had remembered Boothroyd having.

“You knew I hadn’t thrown it out,” Q said.

“Lucky guess,” Bond lied.He brewed himself a pot of tea as Q sniffed the tea leaves.

“Does it meet your satisfaction?” Bond asked.

“You’re not a complete heathen after all,” Q said by way of answer.Bond took that to mean _yes_.

In the twenty-four hours since their last encounter, Q had found another chair.It was another plastic atrocity, something else Bond had the unmistakable urge to destroy, but he took it graciously and sat across from Q at his desk.

Q looked into his mug as he swirled his tea.It grew dark and strong before he took a deep drink, nearly groaning from the taste.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Q said, staring at the ceiling.Bond looked to the cardigan, than to the tea.

“I’ve not met many dragons,” Bond admitted, taking a drink of his coffee, “but I know the gist of things.”

“Do you,” Q said.

“Q,” Bond said.Q looked down from the ceiling and met Bond’s eye.

“Bond.”

They stared at each other for a moment longer before turning elsewhere.Bond had brought a tablet—M needed his report on the Saudi oil field that Bond had left a smoldering wreck, and Q had his own code to wrangle and keep in place.

They worked through the day and well into the night, ordering in and eating in relative silence.

* * *

It became something of a routine over the next three weeks.  Bond came with gifts, most often of the warm and edible kind, though sometimes with scarves and sweaters.  They worked and ate, keeping mostly quiet, and then parted ways.

All good things come to an end.

* * *

Three weeks, twenty one days, five hundred and four hours, thirty thousand two hundred and forty minutes.

Bond stood before Q in his office, not with any gifts but with an outstretched palm.Q handed him a kit in a black box and looked at him with unreadable eyes.

“Do try to bring the equipment back in one piece, 007,” he said.

Bond smiled thinly and without feeling.He turned and made to leave.

“Wait.”

Bond stopped.He had become good at stopping and starting, but he was best of all when it came to Q.

Q came around to stand in front of him.

“Cold is one of my conditions,” Q said.“Death is yours.”Bond said nothing, but he allowed Q to take a hold of his hand and guide him back toward the other end of the office.

“Bulletproof vest,” Q said, opening a long, thin case.Bond took a deep breath as Q pulled out the piece.It was thin, peach-coloured and flexible.It looked like cotton“Took me ages to find something this durable without sacrificing form.You can put it on under your clothes and no one will know the difference.”

Q held it out to Bond, swallowing.Bond felt the fabric between his fingers.His sensory input told him that there was no way that it could stop a knife, much less a bullet, but Q had that look in his eyes, and Bond trusted him more than he trusted himself.

* * *

(When it stopped not one, not two, but three _armour-piercing rounds_ , Bond knew that he had made the best decision of his life.

Still alive and not the worse for wear, Bond returned less to MI6 and more to a dragon who sneezed snowflakes and craved warmth—a warmth Bond was all too happy to provide.)


End file.
